2: A ROTTED FRUIT

Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Two days since Xaltorath started a Hellmarch in the Capital

Brother Qown paused, his voice breaking.

“Tea might soothe your throat better than cider,” Janel said.

The priest nodded. “You’re right. I’ll go check the kitchen.” He gave Kihrin a polite nod as he passed.

The resulting silence left Kihrin and Janel staring at each other.

Kihrin asked, “Did that really happen?”

“What? Qown checking to see if there’s tea?” She rested her chin on a hand, grinned at him when he rolled his eyes. “Oh, you mean bandits attacking us.”

Kihrin returned her smile. “No, I meant when you ripped the branch off that tree.”

“Yes. I suppose that part is hard to believe.”

Kihrin set his upishiarral aside. “The way you handled the stable door—I can’t do that. My friend Star can’t do that. We both tried. But you closed and barred the front door like it was made from sugar floss and compliments.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Then perhaps that story is true.”

“Why don’t you tell this tale instead of Qown? Nice work on having your own chronicler, by the way¹—but I doubt his version is unbiased.”

“And telling it from my viewpoint would be different? At least he remembered to document our travels. I was too distracted.”

“Maybe I’d just prefer to hear it from you.”

Their eyes met again.

Janel’s mouth twitched. “Answer a curiosity for me. Stallions or mares?”

Kihrin blinked. “What?”

She leaned forward, mirroring his position at the table. “Do you run with stallions? Or mares?”

“I’ve never put any thought into my horse’s gender—” He stopped. “But you’re not talking about horses, are you?”

“Not in the least,” she said. “There’s a trap in there for people who don’t understand our ways.”

“How do you mean?”

“There are multiple meanings to how we use the words stallion or mare.” She traced the table wood grain with a finger. “It’s important to know the context, or you might end up in trouble.”

“And your context right now?”

“The preferred sex of your bed partners, naturally.” Mischief sparkled in her eyes. “Do you run with stallions? Do you run with mares?” She shrugged. “Some don’t like to run at all, but that’s not you, is it?”

Kihrin scraped his hand through his hair. “No, that’s not me. Mares, then.” Kihrin hesitated. “Why is that a trap?”

“Because it’s the only time in Jorat where the words stallion, mare, and so on indicate the equipment between one’s legs. Normally, when one refers to a human as a stallion or mare, we’re discussing their gender.”

Kihrin stared. “And you weren’t talking about gender before? You’re a woman. Isn’t that what you mean by mare?”

Her mouth twisted. “You’re conflating gender with sex. My sex—my body—is female, yes. But that’s not my gender. I’m a stallion. And stallion is how Joratese society defines our men. So you’re wrong; I’m most certainly not a woman.”

Kihrin’s eyes widened. “You just said you were female.”

She sighed. “Who I am as a man is independent of”—she gestured to herself—“this. It wouldn’t matter if I were male, female, or neither; I would still be a stallion.”

Kihrin stared harder. “You’re … a man.” His gaze wandered down her tunic, lingered at her legs, then hiked back up to her face. “Obviously.”

Janel rolled her eyes. “Again, you’re conflating woman and female. I can’t blame you; they must be synonyms in the west. But rest assured, they’re not here.” She looked down at herself, plucked the neck of her tunic. “Normally, when one uses mare or stallion to describe a person, they’re talking about gender. And by that definition, I’m a man. But for sex, the rules change. Because then we’re talking about aesthetic preferences, in which case”—she looked down at herself—“I’m most likely to meet the standards of someone who prefers female partners. I am in fact a female man.” She smiled. “Do you see the trap now?”

He shook his head. If someone looked like a woman to him—Janel, for example—how was he supposed to act around them if they defined themselves as … a man? And how was he supposed to know the difference? He’d always assumed the equipment between one’s legs was in fact an important part of figuring out who was a man and who was a woman.

But not according to Janel, and apparently not according to the rest of Jorat either. Oh, he saw the trap. He just wasn’t sure he understood how it worked, let alone how to avoid it.

How long did it take Brother Qown to make tea, anyway? “Uh … I might need time to adjust to the idea. Do I refer to you as he or…?”

“She,” Janel said. “We try not to confuse the rest of Quur too much.”²

“I don’t think it’s working.” Kihrin took a moment to collect himself. “So … what about you, then?”

“Me? I’m not confused on the matter at all.”

“No, I mean, do you run with … stallions or mares?”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “Why would I run with just part of the herd?”

Kihrin was glad he hadn’t been taking a drink. “Aha, why indeed.” He smiled back. He liked her forwardness. He liked her unflinching lack of shame. And while Kihrin understood Janel had an agenda, she only had to meet his stare for a few seconds too long before he started to forget why that might be important. Kihrin knew this wasn’t smart. Not smart at all.

Kihrin reached for her hand, anyway.

Brother Qown set down a tray laden with a kettle and cups.

Kihrin pulled his hand away. “You found tea. Great.”

“Isn’t it?” Brother Qown said. “I’m so pleased.”

Janel said, “Brother Qown, shall I take a turn? It’ll help save your voice.”

“Are you sure?” Qown offered his book to her.

“That won’t be necessary,” Janel said. “I’ll tell the story my way.”

Kihrin almost laughed at the scandalized stare Qown gave her.

The priest recovered and poured himself a cup of tea. “Would you mind if I recorded your account, then?”

Janel blinked at Qown. “If you did what?”

Qown reached into his satchel and recovered another journal. “It’s a spell I learned from”—he cleared his throat—“my old monastery. To document interviews for historical records. It’s very subtle. You won’t even know it’s happening.”

“Wait.” Kihrin leaned forward. “You know a spell that will record everything we say? Because I’m familiar with that spell.” His adoptive father, Surdyeh, had known how to do something very similar.

“Really? Oh, it’s a lovely spell, isn’t it? I can’t even begin to tell you how many times it’s saved my fingers from cramping—”

“You don’t own a ruby ring, do you?” Kihrin’s eyes narrowed.

Qown regarded him strangely. “What an odd question. No, I would never. Vishai priests live modest lives.”

Kihrin pulled himself together. “Sorry. Of course.”³

“Well,” Janel said. “I, for one, don’t mind if you record my account, Qown, so why don’t I just begin?” Without waiting for his response, she did.

Janel’s Turn. Barsine Banner, Jorat, Quur.

After I broke the woman’s leg, I threw down the branch and stepped back, so Brother Qown might rush forward. Arasgon nosed around me, making sure I’d taken no serious injury. Not without cause; I already felt the bruises ripening along my jaw and ribs.

That woman kicked like Khorsal himself.

The other bandits dropped their weapons by the campfire, signaling surrender. I paid little attention to them, besides counting their number. Eight total, including their leader. I caught a few names in spite of my best efforts at apathy. The woman with the white stripe was named Kay. Someone else was named Vidan, although I wasn’t sure who. Fool that I was, I didn’t think them important other than as a method to raise funds.

Luck was with us since Barsine’s capital seat, Mereina, was about to start their tournament, which the local baron was obligated to attend. We wouldn’t have to wait long for our reward.

Brother Qown had been astonished the first time we had played bait the bandit. He couldn’t understand why the other bandits never ran or fought once their leader was beaten. And while I tried to explain …

You see, everything in our world is divided into two concepts—idorrá, the power and strength possessed by those who protect others, and thudajé, the honor gained from submitting to one who is superior. We hold trials, contests, and duels to determine the difference. This fosters good leadership and good community bonds. There is no dishonor in defeat either. Our bandit prisoners would find sympathy and pardon by showing their thudajé. Naturally, they would surrender. And naturally, they would be treated well.

How could one strong in idorrá do otherwise? Those who use their strength to oppress are nothing more than bullies and tyrants. We have a word for that too in our language: thorra.

I knew Qown didn’t understand. Things were done otherwise across the mountains, to the west.

Everything, I think, is done otherwise in the west.

But in this particular scenario, one bandit had less thudajé than the others. A man with a laevos, the horse-mane hair we claim to hallmark our noble status. The same man who had bet on my defeat and lost. While all other eyes were on their former leader or Brother Qown, he stared at me.

“I know you,” he said. “You’re Janel Danorak, the Count of Tolamer’s granddaughter.”

Oh. How wonderful. He knew who I was.

I raised my chin even as I cursed my luck. “You’re mistaken,” I said.

Confusion flickered across his handsome face. He had dark gray skin and a white laevos, which must have been lovely once. He struck me as someone used to luxury turned to squatting in the woods, hiding from his enemies.

Much like myself, I suppose.

“I am?” He blinked his surprise.

“Yes. Once, I was the Count of Tolamer’s granddaughter. Now I’m the Count of Tolamer.” I forced my eyes back to his. “How do you know me? It’s been many years since I’ve visited this banner. I expected no one here to recognize me.”

His bitter smile mocked himself more than me. “I remember your visits from when we were children. You always convinced Tamin to play with you and that fireblood. You’d ride back filthy after making castles in the mud or climbing trees. You’re she, aren’t you? You’re Janel Danorak.”

“My family name is Theranon. You’re one of Baron Barsine’s pledge men?”

“Was.” A pained expression crossed his face. “But you are Danorak?”

The bandits had been a noisy gaggle of birds fretting over their leader’s injury, but with that question, all talking stopped. Every eye turned to me.

I sighed. “I’m merely someone who ended up in a Hellmarch’s path.”

He chuckled. “Humble too.”

“No, I’m not—” But I bit off the rest of my sentence without finishing. I had been warned my entire life never to tell what really happened at Lonezh Canton when the demons had rampaged through its borders. As a result, I never corrected people when they wove myths from my childhood horrors.

For those unfamiliar with Joratese history, Danorak was a fireblood. He rode Jorat’s length and breadth for a week straight—without food, drink, or rest. He warned the human and fireblood herds to reach high ground before Emperor Kandor flooded the Endless Canyon to force our tyrant god-king into the open, where he could be slain.

Once Danorak had saved everyone, he dropped dead from exhaustion.

The Lonezh Hellmarch had started because some witch in Marakor had summoned a demon more powerful than they could control. The results were predictable and only ended after a large swath of Jorat and an entire canton—Lonezh—had been depopulated.

People started calling me Danorak afterward. Word spread I’d run for days, a step ahead of the demons, to warn Emperor Sandus about the invasion. They meant it as a badge of honor. Instead, it served as a reminder of how my life, my reputation, was based on a lie.

No one outruns demons, especially not an eight-year-old girl.

I didn’t want to talk about the Hellmarch. So I turned my attention to Brother Qown, still patching up their leader. “Will she be able to travel?”

“I’m right here,” the woman said, struggling to sit.

“Stop that,” Brother Qown chided. “I haven’t finished setting your leg.”

“You touch my leg again and I’ll show you how hard I can kick with the other one.”

“I have to—” My priest turned to me for aid. “Count, please, would you explain to her that I’m trying to help?”

“Trying to get a peek at my legs, that’s what you’re trying to do.”

Dorna laughed. “He ain’t. Our Qown here is a gelding through and through.” Her grin widened. “They are pretty legs, though. I’ll look if he don’t.”

Qown closed his eyes and whispered a prayer.

“What’s your name?” I asked the woman I had defeated.

She sniffed and looked away.

I tugged the mask from her face. She batted at my hand, but her strength had fled. Without its concealment, she looked Joratese enough: dark brown with an irregular rose splash across her left cheek and forehead. Her hair was straight and black. I guessed her age at twice my own.

But she wasn’t Joratese.

She’d convinced an entire Joratese band to give her their thudajé. Perhaps they hadn’t realized her true ethnicity.

Or perhaps she was just that good at kicking.

“She’s Ninavis,” said the man with the laevos. “We all call her Nina. She worked as a hunter around here before the baron declared this all his forest. His soldiers have moved whole villages out on pain of death. Families who’ve hunted these lands for generations are now poachers.”

“Really, Kalazan?” Ninavis scolded. “Why don’t you just go ahead and tell my name to the baron too!”

“It’s fine to let her know,” Kalazan said. “Don’t you see, Nina? She’s the one we’ve been waiting for.” He turned back to me. “I’m Kalazan. The big man is Dango, and the man with the scarred face is Tanner. That’s Kay Hará and Jem Nakijan, and standing next to them is Vidan and Gan—”

“Gan the Miller’s Daughter,” interrupted the indicated woman. She was young, beautiful, sported a gorgeous laevos, and if she was actually a miller’s daughter, I was the Queen of Old Zaibur. “Kal, Nina’s right. You shouldn’t have said our names.”

“It’s her, Gan.” He became animated, gesturing with his hands. “We’ve eked out a pitiful existence in these woods for months, while the baron and his damn captain burn down village after village looking for their prophesied threat. The demon-claimed child, remember? But what if she is the one they fear? What if it was always Danorak? Nothing in prophecy said it must be someone local.”

I felt a lump form in my stomach, and a blossoming dread stretched over me from head to heel. I closed my hands in fists at my sides rather than succumb to the urge to pick up Kalazan by the neck and shake him by the scruff until answers spilled forth.

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “And be clear, for I loathe prophecy.”

But we never finished the conversation.

Arasgon’s senses are better than any human’s. The fireblood screamed out, “Count, we’re not alone!” just as three dozen armed men on horseback wearing Barsine Banner’s gold-and-brown colors rode into the clearing from downwind.

They all had crossbows.

Or more specifically, they all had crossbows pointed at us.

Several bandits ran for their weapons, or the woods, or what little shelter they might find behind a tree root. Ninavis was in no condition to follow. Although Kalazan didn’t run, I noticed both he and Gan the Miller’s Daughter flipped up the hoods on their cloaks to hide their laevos hair.

“What have we here?” the guard commander said as he rode forward. “Hold your positions; no one move!”

“Ah, good,” Arasgon said, trotting over to greet the newcomers. “We captured these strays. Now help us bring them to your herd master.”

The guard captain ignored Arasgon. “You have nothing to say? Who’s in charge here? Speak up!”

Arasgon blinked and looked back at me. I knew what he thought. No matter if these men looked Joratese; no native son of our fields would dare ignore a fireblood.

Unless they hadn’t understood the fireblood.

Impossible. In ancient times, the god-king Khorsal had chosen us to care for his favored children—his firebloods. When those same firebloods joined humans in overthrowing Khorsal, our relationship had strengthened. Every Joratese child learns to understand our four-hoofed kindred.

But this soldier hadn’t understood Arasgon’s speech. Either he was an idiot, or he wasn’t any more Joratese than Ninavis.

I’d bet metal on the latter.

I stepped forward. “I’m in charge here. I am Count Tolamer, traveling to Mereina to visit Baron Barsine.”

He gave me a critical eye. I didn’t look like a peasant—I had a well-groomed laevos, and my clothing was luxurious enough if one ignored the wear. If fashion and grooming could be faked, however, my idorrá was more difficult to counterfeit. I carried myself as a count.

“Oh yeah? Where are your guards?” he asked.

I heard a strained protest from the bandit leader, Ninavis.

I forced a pleasant smile on my face. “I’m accompanied by a fireblood. What more protection would any noble require?”

The man glanced over, finally realizing Arasgon’s nature. Arasgon tossed his head up as he walked back to the bandits, gathered together in a dense, awkward cluster.

The soldier’s leader dismounted. “I’m Captain Dedreugh. We’ve been hunting criminals who’ve been pillaging and burning villages along the river for almost a year. And this lot seems like a good fit for those crimes, so if you’ll pardon us”—he motioned his men toward the bandits—“we’ll take them off your hands.”

Half his troops dismounted, trading crossbows for swords. Their expressions worried me, though. Nothing so simple as anger. This was the stalking predator’s naked hunger; I saw one eye Ninavis on the ground and lick his lips.⁴ That look had never known good intentions. A wave of fury filled me with a nasty warmth as I fought to keep my temper reined.

I placed my bare hand against Captain Dedreugh’s leather breastplate.

“I captured them, Dedreugh,” I said. “Defeated them and bound their thudajé to my idorrá. They’re under my protection until I tender them to the baron. Directly to the baron.”

The irony wasn’t lost on me. Doing as Dedreugh asked was the original plan, you see. The trap’s whole point. The other times I’d hunted bandits, I had turned them over to the local authorities without even learning their names. I never wanted to be responsible for them. I didn’t wish to adopt ne’er-do-wells, but fill coffers left empty by my swift departure from my home in Tolamer.

There wasn’t a banner, canton, or ward in the entire dominion that didn’t offer a bounty for brigands. I had indeed meant to turn them over easily, in return for a bit of metal.

But here I was, claiming them under my idorrá, as if they were more important than garbage commoners, criminals, and robbers. Why was this group different? Was it because I’d lost my temper and injured their leader? I didn’t know.

Maybe Captain Dedreugh just ran with the wrong gait.

“Captain,” one soldier cried out, “that one in the back! It’s him!”

Dedreugh tried to shove me away and stopped in surprise when he discovered he couldn’t. Behind Dedreugh, the mounted guard leveled their crossbows. The bandits—dear Khored, they were my bandits now, weren’t they?—would never reach their bows before those soldiers fired.

Captain Dedreugh cut an intimidating figure. He stood at least a foot taller than I, his pale gray skin broken up by darker gray jaguar spots at his hairline. His eyes were ice colored. Although handsome enough, a stink lingered near him I didn’t like, something lurking on the edge of rot no bath would cure.

“Out of my way.” He sneered at me, and then added my lord as an afterthought, without the proper respectful qualifiers. “These criminals are wanted for treason and witchcraft. If you speak for them, I will have to level those charges against you.”

“Captain, if these people committed crimes, they’ll pay for them. However, they’re under my idorrá now. So let’s go to Mereina for judgment, as is proper.”

“Woman—”

“Woman?” I raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

He frowned. “You have no say in the matter. Be grateful I’m willing to escort you back to the town.” He bent down until his face hovered next to mine. “It’s been a hard and dangerous winter. Anything might happen on the way back.”

I stared at him, unamused and uncowed. “Is that so?”

“If you’re real nice to me, I’ll make sure you arrive—”

He made a gurgling noise as my hand closed around his throat.

I won’t lie; I found myself tempted to tighten my grip until my fingers touched.

“I am the Count of Tolamer,” I said. “I’m a stallion, not a mare. I’m not asking your permission; I’m giving you an order.”

Despite his advantage in height, I still lifted him a few inches off the ground. He also blocked the line of sight his people might have used to shoot me.

“Uh … Count?” Dorna said. “I hate to interrupt your flirting, but you ought to see to the children—”

I glanced over. The soldiers were pointing their weapons at Dorna and Brother Qown and, yes, even Arasgon, although the nervous look in their eyes suggested they were less certain about the wisdom of threatening the enormous fireblood.

“Tell your people to back down,” I said to Dedreugh. “Or they can watch as I rip your jaw from your face and choke you with your own tongue.⁵ You don’t use that tone with a count. Nor do you raise weapons against those under my protection. Do you understand me?” I paused as he made strangling sounds. “Blink if you do.”

His fingers plucked at mine, but he blinked, then gasped and sputtered when I released his neck. “Lower your weapons!” he rasped to the men behind him.

When he finished, he turned back in a heated rage. “On your word, you’ll help me bring these criminals in, or being a count won’t save you.”

I raised an eyebrow, wondering how Barsine Banner’s ruler had been training his people. I remembered the baron as a hard stallion, fonder of the whip than the carrot. If Dedreugh’s attitude proved anything, he’d grown worse over the passing years. “You seem confused, Captain. A baron is lesser ranked than a count. And I already offered to bring them in, didn’t I?”

He backed away, glaring. He had poor thudajé. I had proved my idorrá over him, but he reacted with resentment, not honorable submission to my will. He was a bully, a thorra, one who thought their physical strength was the only strength that mattered when proving their right to dominate. I could see the threat in his stare: Watch your back, or when I get my chance, you’ll suffer for this humiliation.

I narrowed my eyes. Our system had functioned for five hundred years. It worked because people understood their place.

He proved himself less by insisting on idorrá over me. Equally intolerable after I’d already forced him to submit. There have always been those who mistook idorrá and thudajé as synonyms for male and female.

Outsiders make this error.

I would hardly have the right to call myself a count if I’d let someone of such common status treat me thus.

I whistled for Dorna’s horse, Pocket Biter, and Brother Qown’s gelding, Cloud, as I began to lower the deer we’d caught earlier from the tree. “Mare Dorna, Brother Qown, help tie up our friends while these men assist us in breaking camp. Ninavis, you’ll ride Arasgon. I’ll saddle our horses. The rest of you—don’t make trouble.”

The smile on Kalazan’s face surprised me. I remembered his talk of prophecy, of a demon-claimed child. He had no fear. Of course he had no fear—the hero who would deliver them all from Captain Dedreugh and his men had arrived.

I didn’t know if I wanted him to be right.